“This ledger contains thirty-two pages of wire transfers,” she said.

“They document millions of dollars moving from his firm’s operating account to shell companies in Nevis and Belize.”

“If he refuses to sign, we hand this entire file to the United States Attorney for the Southern District of New York.”

The waitress approached our table with a fresh pot of coffee, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the linoleum.

Lydia closed the laptop screen slightly, keeping the document out of sight.

“Everything alright, ladies?” the waitress asked, looking at my hands, which were shaking slightly.

“We are fine, thank you,” I said, forcing a polite smile.

She poured the coffee, the steam rising between us, and then walked back to the counter.

Outside, the man in the yellow slicker stepped out of the phone booth.

He did not look back at the diner as he walked down the sidewalk, disappearing into the shadow of a closed bait shop.

A moment later, blue and red lights flashed against the wet pavement as a local police cruiser pulled into the parking lot.

Lydia opened her laptop fully again and clicked the send button.